Rogue Lawyer (18 page)

I begin by asking Doug about his military career. Fourteen years in uniform, proudly serving his country, without a blemish. Two tours in Vietnam, one Purple Heart, two weeks as a prisoner before being rescued. Half a dozen medals, an honorable discharge. A real soldier, not the dime-store variety.

A law-abiding citizen with only one speeding ticket on his record.

The contrasts are stark and speak for themselves.

On the night in question he and Kitty watched television until 10:00, then read for a few minutes until they turned off the lights. He kissed her good night, told her he loved her as always, and they fell asleep. They were jolted from their dreams when the assault began. The house shook, shots were fired. Doug scrambled for his pistol and told Kitty to call 911. In the frenzy that followed, he ran into the dark hallway and saw two shadows rising quickly from the stairwell. Voices were coming from downstairs. He hit the floor and began firing. He was immediately hit in the shoulder. No, he said emphatically, no one ever yelled out anything about the police. Kitty screamed and ran into the hallway and into a volley of bullets.

Doug breaks down when he describes the sounds of his wife being hit.

Half of the jurors are crying too.

Finney wants no part of Doug Renfro. He attempts to prove that Doug deliberately fired upon the police, but Doug crushes him by saying over and over, “I didn't know they were cops. I thought they were criminals breaking into my house.”

I call no other witnesses. I don't need them.

Finney walks through a halfhearted closing argument, during which he refuses to make eye contact with any of the jurors. When it's my turn, I recap the important facts and manage to control myself. It would be easy to flay the cops, to engage in unbridled overkill, but the jury has had enough.

Judge Ponder instructs the jurors as to the applicable law, then says it's time for them to retire and deliberate. But no one moves. What happens next borders on historic.

Juror number six is a man named Willie Grant. Slowly, he stands and says, “Judge, I've been elected as the foreman of this jury, and I have a question.”

The judge, a jurist of great composure, is startled and looks wildly at Finney and me. The courtroom is again perfectly silent. Me, I'm not breathing. His Honor says, “Well, I'm not sure at this point. I have instructed the jury to retire and begin deliberations.” The jurors have not moved.

Mr. Grant says, “We don't need to deliberate, Your Honor. We know what we're going to do.”

“But I have repeatedly warned you against discussing the case,” Ponder says sternly.

Unfazed, Mr. Grant replies, “We haven't discussed the case, but we have a verdict. There's nothing to discuss or deliberate. My question is, why is Mr. Renfro on trial and not the cops who killed his wife?”

There is an instant wave of gasping and chattering throughout the courtroom. Judge Ponder attempts to regain control by clearing his throat loudly and asking, “Is your verdict unanimous?”

“Damned right it is. We find Mr. Renfro not guilty, and we think these cops should be charged with murder.”

“I'm going to ask the jurors to raise your hands if you agree with the not-guilty verdict.”

Twelve hands shoot into the air.

I put my arm around Doug Renfro as he breaks down again.

I often disappear after a big trial, especially one that gets front-page coverage and plenty of airtime. It's not that I don't love the attention. I'm a lawyer; it's in my genes. But in the Renfro trial I humiliated the police department, embarrassed some cops, some really tough guys who are not accustomed to answering for their misdeeds. As they say, “The streets are hot right now,” and it's time for a break. I load some clothes into the van, along with my golf clubs, some paperbacks, and half a case of small-batch bourbon, and ease out of town the day after the verdict. The weather is raw and windy, too cold for golf, so I head south like countless other snowbirds in search of the sun. I have learned through my meandering travels that almost every small town with a population above ten thousand has a public golf course. These are usually packed on weekends but not too crowded during the week. I play my way south, hitting at least one course per day, sometimes two, playing alone with no caddie and no scorecard, paying cash for inexpensive motel rooms, eating little, and sipping bourbon late at night while I read the latest James Lee Burke or Michael Connelly. If I had a pile of money, I could spend the rest of my life doing this.

But I don't, so I eventually return to the City, where my notoriety instantly catches up to me.

About a year ago, a young woman named Jiliana Kemp was abducted as she was leaving a hospital after visiting a friend. Her car was found untouched on the third floor of a parking garage next to the hospital. Surveillance cameras caught her walking toward her car but lost her as she stepped out of range. The footage from all fourteen cameras was analyzed. It captured the license plates of every vehicle coming and going for a twenty-four-hour period, and revealed only one significant clue. An hour after Jiliana was seen walking to her car, a blue Ford SUV left the parking deck. The driver was a white male wearing a baseball cap and glasses. The SUV had stolen license plates from Iowa. During the night, the attendants saw nothing suspicious, and the one who took the ticket from the white male did not remember him. Forty vehicles had passed through the exit gate in the hour preceding the SUV's departure.

Detectives scoured every inch of the garage and found nothing. Her abductor made no demand for ransom. The search went from frantic to futile. An initial reward of $100,000 provoked no response. Two weeks later, the blue SUV was found abandoned in a state park a hundred miles away. It had been stolen a month earlier in Texas. Its license plates were from Pennsylvania, stolen of course.

The abductor was playing games. He had wiped the SUV clean; no prints, no hairs, no blood, nothing. His range, along with his planning, terrified the investigators. They were not chasing an ordinary criminal.

Adding to the urgency was the fact that Jiliana Kemp's father is one of the City's two assistant chiefs of police. Needless to say, the case was given the highest priority by the department. What was not made public at the time was that Jiliana was three months pregnant. As soon as she disappeared, her live-in boyfriend told her parents about the pregnancy. They kept this quiet as the police worked around the clock to find her.

Jiliana has not been heard from. Her body has not been found. She's probably dead, but when was she murdered? The worst possible scenario is also the most obvious: She wasn't killed immediately but was held captive until after she gave birth.

Nine months after her disappearance, as the reward money continued to pile up, a tip led the police to a pawnshop not far from my apartment building. A gold necklace with a small Greek coin had been pawned for $200. Jiliana's boyfriend identified the necklace as the one he'd given her the previous Christmas. In a full-court press, detectives worked furiously to establish a chain of possession. It led to another pawnshop, to another transaction, and finally to a suspect named Arch Swanger.

A thirty-one-year-old drifter with no apparent means of support, Swanger had a history of petty thievery and small-time drug dealing. He lived in a run-down trailer park with his mother, who was a drunk drawing disability checks. After a month of intense surveillance and scrutiny, Swanger was finally brought in for questioning. He was evasive and coy, and after two hours of fruitless interrogation clammed up and demanded a lawyer. With little hard evidence, the police let him go but continued to monitor his every movement. Still, he managed to slip away several times, but always returned home.

Last week, they picked him up again for questioning. He demanded a lawyer.

“Okay, who's your lawyer?” the detective asked.

“That guy named Rudd, Sebastian Rudd.”

The last thing I need is more trouble with the police. But, as we say in the trade, we don't always get to choose our clients. And every defendant, regardless of how despicable the person or his crime, is entitled to a lawyer. Most laymen don't understand this and don't care. I don't care either. This is my job. To be honest, I'm initially thrilled Swanger picked me, thrilled to be allowed to stick my nose smack in the middle of another sensational case.

This one, though, will haunt me forever. I'll curse the day I hustled over to Central to have my first chat with Arch Swanger.

The police department has more leaks than old plumbing, and by the time I arrive at Central word is out. A reporter with a cameraman catches me as I enter the building and demands to know if I represent Arch Swanger. I offer a rude “No comment” and keep walking. From that moment on, though, everyone in town knows I'm his lawyer. It's a perfect fit, right? A monstrous murderer and the rogue lawyer who'll defend anyone.

I've strolled through Central many times, and the place is always bustling with an urgent energy. Street cops in uniforms rush around, bantering crudely with those stuck behind desks. Detectives in cheap suits swagger through the halls, scowling as if they're pissed at the world. Frightened families sit on benches waiting for bad news. And there's always a lawyer huddled up with a cop in a tense negotiation, or hurrying to get to a client before he spills his guts.

Today, the air is especially heavy, the mood tense. I get more stares than usual when I walk through the front door. And why not? They've caught the killer; he's just down the hall. And here comes his lawyer to save him. Both should be grabbed and put on the rack.

Present too is the lingering rawness of the Renfro trial. It was only three weeks ago and cops have long memories. Some of these guys would like to take a nightstick and break a few of my bones, or worse.

They lead me through the maze to the interrogation rooms. Down the hall, smoking and looking into a one-way mirror, are two homicide detectives. One is Landy Reardon, the cop who called me with the news that, out of all the lawyers in the City, I had been chosen. Reardon is the best homicide detective in the department. He's nearing retirement now and the years have taken their toll. He's about sixty but looks ten years older, with thick white hair that goes untouched for the most part. He still smokes and has the jagged wrinkles as proof.

He sees me and nods. Come on over. The other detective disappears.

The good thing about Landy Reardon is that he is brutally honest and will not waste time on a case he can't prove. He digs hard for the evidence, but if it's not there, then it's not there. In thirty years, he's never charged the wrong murder suspect. But if Landy collars you for murder, the judge and jury will fall in line and you'll probably die in prison.

He's had the Jiliana Kemp case since the beginning. Four months ago, he had a mild heart attack and his doctor told him to retire. He found another doctor. I stand beside him and both of us look through the mirror. We do not say hello. He thinks all defense lawyers are scum and would never stoop to shake my hand.

Swanger is alone in the interrogation room. He's kicked back in his folding chair and has his feet on the table, totally bored with everything. “What's he said?” I ask.

“Nothing. Name, rank, and serial number, and after that he called for you. Said he saw your name in the newspaper.”

“So he can read?”

“IQ of 130, I'd guess. He just looks stupid.”

Indeed he does. Plump with a double chin; large brown freckles from the neck up; head practically shaved but for a few waxed bristles, like the old butch crew cut from sixty years ago, pre-Beatles. To attract either attention or ridicule, he is wearing a pair of round-frame glasses, absurdly large and aqua blue in color.

“About those glasses,” I say.

“Drugstore, cheap and fake. He doesn't need glasses but he fancies himself clever when it comes to disguises. Actually, he's pretty good. He's slipped our surveillance a few times in the past month but always comes home.”

“What do you have on him?”

Landy exhales in fatigue and frustration. “Not much,” he says, and I admire the guy's honesty. He's a brilliant cop and knows better than to level with me, but he inspires confidence.

“Enough for an indictment?”

“I wish. We're not even close to an arrest. Chief wants to hold him for a week or two. Crank up the pressure, you know, see if the guy'll break. But really to see if lightning will strike and we get lucky. Fat chance. We'll probably let him go again. Between me and you, Rudd, we ain't got much.”

“Seems like you have plenty of suspicion.”

Landy grunts and laughs. “We're good at that. Look at him, talk about suspicious. I'd give him ten years in solitary just based on the first impression.”

“Maybe five,” I say.

“Talk to him, and if you want, I'll show you the file tomorrow.”

“Okay, I'm going in, but I've never met this guy and I'm not sure I'll be his lawyer. There's always the issue of getting paid and he doesn't look too prosperous. If he's indigent, PD takes over and I'm out of the picture.”

“Have fun.”

Swanger takes his feet off the desk, stands, and we make our introductions. Firm handshake, eye contact, easy voice with no trace of concern. Playing it cool, I restrain myself from telling him to take off those damned glasses. If he likes 'em then I'm crazy about 'em.

“I saw you on TV,” he says. “That cage fighter that killed the ref. Whatever happened to him?”

“The case is still pending, waiting for a trial. You go to cage fights?”

“No. I watch 'em on TV with my mum. I thought about getting into it a few years back.”

I almost laugh. Even if he dropped thirty pounds and trained eight hours a day, this guy wouldn't last ten seconds in a cage. He'd probably faint in the dressing room. I sit at the table, empty-handed, and ask, “Now, what did you want to talk about?”

“That girl, man, you know the case. These guys think I'm involved in some way and they're hassling me. They've been on my ass for months now, always hiding in the shadows as if I don't know what's going on. This is the second time they've hauled me in here like something on television. You watch
Law & Order
? Well, these guys have watched way too much and they're really bad actors, know what I mean? That old one with the white hair, Reardon I think, he's the good guy, always just looking for the truth and trying to find ways to help me. Right. Then the skinny one, Barkley, he'll come in and start yelling. Back and forth. Good cop, bad cop, like I don't know the game. Ain't my first rodeo, pal.”

“Your first murder charge, right?”

“Hang on, Superman. I ain't been charged yet.”

“Okay, assuming you are charged with murder, I take it you want me to represent you.”

“Well, gee, why else would I call you, Mr. Rudd? I'm not sure I need a lawyer right now but it damned sure feels like it.”

“Understood. Are you employed?”

“Here and there. How much do you charge for a murder case?”

“Depends on how much a person can pay. A case like this, I'll need ten thousand up front and that'll just get us through the indictment phase. Once we're looking at a trial, then we get to the serious fee. If we can't agree, then you go elsewhere.”

“Where's elsewhere?”

“Public defender's office. They handle virtually all murders.”

“Figures. But what you're not factoring in here, Mr. Rudd, is all the publicity. Ain't too many cases as big as this one. Pretty girl, important family, and that thing with the baby. If she had a kid, then where is it, right? That'll drive the press crazy. So you gotta figure that this thing is front-page news, starting right about now. I've seen you on television. I know how much you love to bark and growl and strut in front of the cameras. This case will be a gold mine for my defense lawyer. Don't you agree, Mr. Rudd?”

He's hammering the nail on the head, but I can't admit this. I say, “I don't work for free, Mr. Swanger, regardless of the publicity. I have too many other clients.”

“Of course you do. Big lawyer like you. I didn't call no rookie in here to save my ass. They're talking death penalty, man, and they mean it. I'll get the money, one way or the other. The question is, will you take my case?”

Usually, by this point in the first meeting, the accused has already denied the charges. I make a mental note that Swanger has not done so, has not ventured anywhere near the issue of his guilt or innocence. In fact, he seems to be welcoming an indictment, with a big trial to follow. I say, “Yes, I'll represent you, assuming we can come to terms on the money and assuming they actually indict you. I think they have a ways to go. In the meantime, don't say a word to the cops, any cop. Understood?”

“Got it, man. Can you get them to back off, stop the harassment?”

“I'll see what I can do.” We shake hands again and I leave the room. Detective Reardon has not moved. He's watched our little meeting, and he's probably listened to it too, though that would be illegal. Standing next to him, in casual clothes, is Roy Kemp, father of the missing girl. He glares at me with unbridled hatred, as if the few minutes I just spent with their first and rather weak suspect is clear proof that I'm involved in his daughter's disappearance.

I have sympathy for the man and his family, but right now he wants to put a bullet in the back of my head.

Outside the building, more reporters have gathered. When they see me they start hopping and shoving. I brush by them with “No comment, no comment, no comment,” as they lob their idiotic questions. One actually yells, “Mr. Rudd, did your client abduct Jiliana Kemp?” I want to stop, walk over to this clown, and ask him if he might possibly come up with a dumber question. But instead I push by them and hop in the van with Partner.